Baker Street Ficlets
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: A collection of short fics, ranging in theme, non-slash, updated as inspiration strikes. T for wiggle-room.
1. Token of Affection

Hello! I've had a couple of ideas for different fanfictions, but none enough to write full stories around. I've seen a couple of Sherlock Holmes ficlet collections on the site that I really liked, so I figured I'd try out the format for myself! Updates will be largely sporadic - I am by no means a writer, and inspiration is occasional... I just like playing make-believe with my favorite detective and army doctor. Enjoy, and as always, feel perfectly free to comment and critique. Cheers!

* * *

**Token of Affection**

Of all of the things to find themselves in the grasp of Sherlock Holmes, Watson was sure he'd never seen a bouquet of flowers.

Pipe. Cane. Gun. Telegrams. Test tube. All of these, the weapons of his trade, were far more comfortable objects in the detective's hand than the current object, time-honored for its ability to please the feminine subject of one's attention. Watson, who knew his companion well, was well aware of the incongruity between his friend and the bundle that was carefully cradled between his arm and chest. The charmingly colored roses, however, combined with Holmes' pristine and gentlemanly appearance had the effect of turning a few wistful, pretty eyes in his direction. Hiding a smile, Watson saw fit to point out this fact to his friend.

"Yes, Watson, thank you. I had indeed noticed." Holmes was mild in his reply. If he found the situation uncomfortable in any way, he did not allow his unease to show.

In fact, Watson realized, Holmes seemed quite at ease. Perhaps there was a part of Holmes that was quietly enjoying this debonair façade. Likely, it was his ego that was enjoying some of the superfluous attention. His current disposition was one that only followed the successful conclusion of a case; Holmes rarely allowed himself to gloat or, in this case, take pleasure in the positive reactions to his carefully trimmed appearance, on any other occasion.

"Ah. Holmes," Watson chuckled, "look at that young lady on the far corner." He discreetly motioned his head in her direction. "I daresay she is a trifle jealous."

Sherlock glanced at the young woman in question and giggled a bit wickedly. "Oh my. I see that you are correct."

The two fell into snickering about the situation, and Watson went to great effort to calm himself. Holmes succeeded before his companion, wresting control of his composure by articulating unnecessary conversation. "The affections of a well-to-do bachelor – for surely, I must be such as I bear no ring or other token of a promise – are well sought after in the city."

Watson grinned. "It is too bad that your affections have already been claimed, old boy."

The detective snorted. "Indeed, it is pitiable that my independence has been jeopardized in such a way that I am forced to wield the tools of endearment."

"It is your own fault, Holmes. And really, it is the fate of all men." Rather than feel bolstered by Watson's comment, Holmes began to fidget a trifle uncomfortably. "Besides, it's not so bad," the Doctor added sympathetically.

As we approached the doorstep, Holmes sighed dramatically. "Untrue, Watson. I fear that my personal self-respect shall be irrevocably damaged."

Watson stepped back as his friend knocked on the door. The summons remained unanswered for several moments, leading Watson to believe that this pause was carefully contrived. The message was clear; the woman would open the door on her own terms, thus asserting her control of the situation.

Watson couldn't keep a smile from blooming across his face and he was forced to hide behind a hand when Holmes glared in his direction. Any ease a few minutes prior during their walk had vanished at the prospect of the next part in this age-old process, and now Holmes shuffled impatiently.

Finally, the door opened, and the woman cast a devastatingly unconcerned eye over her caller.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

Watson could barely contain his glee at her masterfulness in this situation – and the indomitable Sherlock Holmes. His discomfort was evident, and for one of the few times in his life, Watson watched his friend fumble for words. Finding none particularly forthcoming, he gracefully extended the bouquet of roses for her to accept. He swallowed and tried to regain his air of confidence.

"I apologize for the state of your kitchen. It was an unwarranted experiment and will not happen again. Will you forgive me, Mrs. Hudson? And for _heaven's sakes_, will you _please _let me back into my flat?"


	2. Most Intolerable

_We learn with regret that Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the well-known private detective, was the victim this morning of a murderous assault which has left him in a precarious position. There are no exact details to hand, but the event seems to have occurred about twelve o'clock in Regent Street, outside the Cafe Royal. The attack was made by two men armed with sticks, and Mr. Holmes was beaten about the head and body, receiving injuries which the doctors describe as most serious. He was carried to Charing Cross Hospital and afterwards insisted upon being taken to his rooms in Baker Street. _- The Illustrious Client

And now, Holmes' records on the matter...

* * *

**Most Intolerable **

As I recall, it was the feeling of several hands on my person that finally brought me to wakefulness once more. My sense of time was heavily distorted. One moment, I believe I felt the ghost of a touch at my throat. The next (or was it previous?), a palm seemed to rest on my chest. It was when a set of fingers began to explore the crown of my head, eliciting a most disagreeable fiery sensation through my skull, that I decided to express my disapproval.

All that I managed, I fear, was a garbled sort of groan; "Please do _stop _touching me" became "Leeso-sm-me."

There was another moment or two of disorientation before I realized that the urgent demands of "Sir!" were intended for my benefit. Realizing I had yet to oblige by opening my eyes, I did so.

I regretted it almost immediately. My body utilized my wakefulness to insist I consider several injuries all at once, and the result was an unfortunate surge of nausea. I closed my eyes in response, but that only set the mysterious hands and voice to work once more at demanding my attention.

Grumpily, I tried to swat away the hand tapping my face, but my wrist was caught. Further snatches of noise were beginning to filter through my mind, and I realized with some chagrin that I was really _quite_ confused and unable to accurately discern the situation. _That certainly won't do_, I remember thinking. I martialed my thoughts together to the best of my ability, and opened my eyes once more.

There was a young constable hovering over me and another gentleman – likely a doctor given the way he was probing and observing my hand – on my right. The hand I had utilized earlier was the one the doctor had in his grasp, and I began to wonder if I had actually succeeded in lifting it of my own volition after all.

"Those are a nasty tw… calp lacerations. Mess of bruises, too, a bi…"

"Right, sir. We've go… cab he..."

"… to carry him to… arin… his head inju…"

Besides the two men beside me, I passingly noticed a small gathering of people a few paces away, gawking with hands pressed to mouths and muttering the usual phrases of, I presume, shock and feigned concern.

By then, I had started remembering what had led me to this predicament: the case, the two men who had attacked me, and the unfortunate final blow that had gotten through my defense.

"…. Sir? … ir, we need to move y…."

I glared at the constable for I had absolutely no idea what he was saying. I'm afraid it did little to better my situation. It was when I faintly discerned "Charing Cross" among the doctor's phrases that I once more tried to assert control over the situation.

Feebly, I managed, "No… Gneeder—'ratson… Take me-t bake…"

My attempts were met with shushes of concern from the doctor, and I could do nothing when several sets of hands picked up my legs and torso. Any further comment I may have had on the matter was lost with the miserable flare of pain that rekindled at the movement, however gentle my handlers may have been. Another groan, and I was unconscious once more.

I remember waking once more in hospital. My head, I discovered, had been tightly bandaged. Glancing down, I recognized two fingers wrapped, a few further patches of white bandaging, and several vibrantly colored bruises. I also acknowledged the insistent pounding of ache, dull along my person and alternately sharp in my head.

The most disagreeable matter at hand, however, was the fact that I had woken inside a hospital.

It took several hoarse calls to nurses of differing degrees of patience to finally herald a doctor. I believe it was only the desire to avoid further upset in my condition that, after a few minutes of arguing, the man finally relented and allowed me to be transported back to Baker Street to recover.

It can only be described as an incalculable relief when, as I finally found myself finally settling down in bed after the trying journey from the hospital, I heard the distinctive voice of my dearest friend downstairs asking after my health.


	3. Drabble - Devil's Foot, Morose

I wanted to write a thing and asked my friend for an idea; she gave me "devil's foot". Have a 221-word drabble (which happened quite incidentally; doesn't end with a B, sadly).

* * *

Holmes sat before the fire, the ever-present knit afghan thrown over his shoulders and a forgotten cup of tea in his hands. Since their journey to the Cornish coast, Holmes' mood had not turned towards the positive. Rather, it appeared to have become eternally pensive; or worse. His temper occasionally dipped and he seemed morose, despite the bettering of his physical condition. But as for laughter, or a smile? There was nothing. Whatever thoughts were spinning in earnest through that great mind, they had swallowed the detective completely.

Watson sighed quietly from the doorway. His friend gave no reaction. Watson suspected he knew the nature of his reflections. If his presumption was correct, then it was best not to bring the matter up.

No, instead, Watson would do what he did best when it came to Sherlock Holmes. Quietly, he crossed the room to tend the fire, and upon turning, gently removed the half-empty cup from Holmes' hands. Holmes glanced up once to catch his eye and his lips twitched upwards briefly as a way of displaying his thanks.

Watson reached the door when he paused. "Holmes," he called lightly. "I'm feeling a bit restless. Would you care to join me in a walk?"

It was a few seconds before Holmes' quiet sigh answered. "I suppose if you'd like, dear fellow."


	4. Number 10: Bloodline dialogue

I found a photoset on tumblr of Jeremy Brett's performance in Number 10: Bloodline as William Pitt the Younger. While the scene is quite angry, the dialogue runs as such:

_"'Will, you must marry her, or put her aside.'_

_"I cannot… I will not! Have I not sacrificed enough for this veracious country of mine? Listen, my youth has gone by like a dream…_  
_No please don't touch me! Don't. Just don't.. Johnny go I beg you do go.'"_

I commented to a friend that the dialogue could be interpreted as being that of sad-retirement-Holmes to which she appropriately responded "ALEX NO," and so I took it upon myself to deliver it up.

The problem is, I ended up liking the idea. And it makes me sad on occasion.

* * *

Holmes sat by the fireplace, his fingers beating an agitated tattoo against the arm of his chair. Watson sighed and walked towards the window. The woman — perhaps the only woman to ever catch his friend's attention in any romantic sense — was walking away along the dusty Sussex road.

Quietly, he finally voiced the obvious. "Holmes. You must marry her, or put her aside."

A broken sigh of frustration came from the fireplace. In younger years, Holmes had been more guarded about displaying his emotions. Age was wearing away his grip, however, and while Watson enjoyed a closer social intimacy with his friend, he was also saddened and perhaps a trifle worried by this weakening. Holmes held such pride in his control. But there were the unmistakable signs of its deterioration. This matter with the young woman had strained it more than he'd ever believed possible. Holmes wielded his control like a shield; without it, he would have to face a great many uncomfortable experiences.

The silence was heavy until it was finally broken by the uncharacteristically soft voice of his dearest friend. "I cannot."

Watson turned. The former detective's face seemed suddenly impossibly tired. Beyond the graying hair and worn lines was the most unguarded expression Watson had ever seen. It would have been almost boyish were it not for the evidence of age. There was uncertainty and a most obvious humanity in his sad, grey eyes. Silence, again. Holmes looked up at his friend, and Watson read the regret before Holmes even spoke.

"Have I not sacrificed enough," he said softly, as if he was in wonder of the statement himself, "for this veracious country of mine?" There was no question in his words. It was a statement. In the pursuit of his career, and his thirst for intellectual stimulation, Holmes had set aside the gentler ambitions of mankind. And here, in this lonely Sussex home, Holmes felt his seclusion most keenly.

Again, Holmes continued in that terribly quiet voice. "Listen, my youth… has gone by like a dream…" His voice trailed with an echo of remorse and Watson moved forward to lay a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. Holmes shook his head and stood suddenly in response. "No, please don't touch me."

Watson withdrew his hand sadly; he was not offended. Holmes, however, realized his rudeness and said with more steadiness, "Don't. Just don't." He crossed to the other side of the room to retrieve a pipe. "John… go. I beg of you… do go."

Watson understood and retired to the guest room quietly. He anticipated Holmes' decision. And sure enough, the next day, he observed his friend with the young lady — and she was so _very_ young, and so _kind_ — in question in the garden. After a quiet conference, the lady left with a slightly tearful smile. Watson prepared tea and waited for his friend to return from the garden. When he did, Holmes wordlessly accepted the offered tea and sat beside his friend in silence. Just once, Watson inquired gently if Holmes was alright. He received a small sad smile in return. It was the closest thing to a 'thank-you' that Watson could expect.


End file.
